the iron railing and looked down at the ground. It wasn’t much of a drop, so I climbed onto the railing, deciding to chance it. For a moment, my foot on the other railing, my hands clammy as I reached to pull myself across, I faltered. Then I closed my eyes, pulled, and landed on the balcony, stumbling. They hadn’t bothered to close the living room draperies on this side.
The room was decorated in stark, modern furniture, all chrome and glass and light wood. After the discussion I had just heard about Tony’s “other business,” I looked at the furniture with interest. Expensive. It had to have cost thousands of dollars for this room alone. There was an elaborate stereo set in a teak cabinet, a large TV with a video recorder, and what looked like original artworks on glass-enclosed shelves. It was not the living room of the education director of a small, impecunious museum.
One of the lights that had been left on was by the door to the bedrooms. Tony’s suitcase sat on the floor. I went forward, skirting a kettle-style barbecue and a lawn chair, and pressed my face to the glass. The suitcase had a yellow tag that said LAX, the code letters for Los Angeles International Airport. Unfortunately, that didn’t help me figure out where Tony had been. There was also another tag, a blue one with a symbol on it. I strained my eyes, but all I could tell was that it looked like a compass, one with all the points, not just north, south, east, and west.
The light in the kitchen went out. Tony and Susana appeared in the door to the living room. I jerked back from the glass and banged into the barbecue. It made a hollow sound, like a bell ringing.
“What was that?” Tony started for the balcony door.
I looked around frantically. There was a pile of fireplace wood in one corner. I leaped for it and squeezed behind, a piece of bark scraping my skin. The balcony light came on as I crouched there, holding my breath.
The glass door slid open, and footsteps sounded on the concrete floor. After a moment Tony said, “Huh.”
“What is it?”‘ Susana asked.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Probably it was a cat. They are always jumping over from the neighbors’ balcony.”
“Probably. I ought to speak to the manager. They don’t allow cats in this building.”
“But it is a nice cat. I am thinking of getting one myself.”
“No cats, my love,” Tony said firmly. His footsteps went inside, the balcony light went out, and the door slammed shut.
I let out my breath slowly. There was no way I could have explained my presence on Tony’s balcony at one in the morning. And the scene would have quickly turned ugly had they realized I’d overheard them talking. I was going to have to be more cautious in the future.
After five minutes, when the light in the living room had gone out, I climbed back over to the service porch and hurried away from there to my car. As I drove home through the thick mist, my mind whirled with the possibilities.
Tony, Vic, Frank, and his brother Robert had had another business. Susana had said it would be all Tony’s now that Frank was dead, which meant Frank had been much more important in the scheme than either Vic or Robert. The scheme obviously involved travel on Tony’s part. Travel for what? And where to?
Well, I had one clue.
I pulled into my driveway and rushed into the house. The day’s heat was still trapped there, and it felt warm after the fog. I turned on the living room lights and went to my desk. My hands were shaking with excitement as I pulled the Yellow Pages from the drawer.
Airlines. Or was it listed as air lines, two words? I never remembered and always looked up the wrong spelling first. Airlines. No. Air lines.
I hoped that whatever carrier Tony had flown was large enough to have an ad showing its symbol. I started at the beginning, with Aer Lingus. There were plenty of symbols- stylized initials, wings, geese, ducks, and kiwi birds. No compass, however. TWA, Transamerica, UTA, United. Still no compass. I turned the page, and there it was, right at the top. Varig Brasilian Airlines. “Jets from U.S.A. to South America, Africa, and Japan.”
That covered a lot of territory, but I was willing to bet on South America, possibly Bogota’t where Tony was from. Varig flew out of L.A. International, and Tony’s bag had been coded for a return trip there. This called for mathematics, never my strong suit. I took out a pencil and a piece of scratch paper.
I wrote, “12:30,” the approximate time Tony had returned home, near the bottom of the page. How long did it take to drive here from L.A. International? At this time of night, in light traffic, about two hours. Farther up the page, I wrote, “10:30.”
All right. I’d have to knock off another hour for baggage claim and customs. I crossed out the other figure and wrote “9:30.”
That was it: I wanted a Varig flight arriving at LAX at around nine-thirty. Varig had a twenty-four-hour information and reservations line. I pulled the phone toward me and dialed.
When the sleepy-sounding clerk answered, I said, “I’m interested in service from Bogota. I understand you have a flight that arrives around nine-thirty in the evening.”
“Service to or from Bogota?”
“From.”
“Just a moment, please.” There were background noises that sounded as if he was typing. “I’m sorry, our flight from Bogota gets in at seven-oh-five.”
“No, the computer says seven-oh-five, ma’am.”
“Well, what
“You wanted service from Bogota…”
“Could you check and see where the nine-thirty flight originates? I’d sleep better knowing.”
Surprisingly, he laughed. “I get what you mean. Hold on.” The typing noises began again. “You’re talking about our flight from Rio. It arrives at nine-forty-seven.”
“Rio?” I’d been to Rio; it was more than a thirteen-hour flight. Tony could not possibly have gone there and back, plus cleared customs and traveled to and from the airport, in the time allotted. “Does it stop anywhere?”
“Yes, Lima, Peru.”
“Lima. How long a flight is that?”
“About seven hours.”
Tony could have done that easily. “What about the flight to Lima? When does that leave?”
“Ten-thirty-eight in the evening.”‘
“Thanks,” I said, “you’ve been a great help.”
“Do you want to book any of those flights?”
“Um, no. I’ve got to think about it.”
“Fine. And will you be able to sleep better-knowing about the Rio flight?”
“I certainly will.”
“Sweet dreams.” He probably thought I was one of those lonely people who make phone calls to airlines in the middle of the night so they can hear another human voice.
I’d asked about service from Bogota on the off chance Tony had been called home on some family emergency. But instead he’d been to Lima, Peru-however briefly. Now I could reconstruct the scenario of what had happened.
Tony had returned home some time after five yesterday, and Susana had driven him to L.A. International. The latest he could have left Santa Barbara in order to make the flight was seven-thirty. That still gave him plenty of time to kill Frank. Of course, I had my doubts Tony was smart enough to figure a way out of the museum that neither the police nor I could understand, but I’d worry about that later.
Okay, Tony had flown to Lima and probably been asleep in his hotel or wherever he was staying by the time Susana had called him to say Frank was dead-or that his body had been discovered. Since his absence would have looked suspicious, he’d caught the return flight, and Susana had covered for him all day by not answering the phone or door.
But, if he’d killed Frank, would he have returned? Maybe, if he thought he wouldn’t be suspected.
But then, why fly to Lima at all? Did Tony take these trips every time he called in sick? Were they always to Lima, or did he travel to other cities? And why?
Whatever the reason, I had a feeling it wasn’t legal.
